


Habanera

by _hiving (antmaiden)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Opera House AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antmaiden/pseuds/_hiving
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> 
Nico was the distant, unnamed star—not bright, not big, swallowed by the crowds of other stars that even when people stared at him in the eyes, he’d still went unnoticed.</p><p> Jason was the full moon—the center of interest, beaming solid and brighter even with thousands of blinking stars trying to compete him.</p><p> They share the same dark sky, yet their fates played differently. But as Maria Callas sang in her 1964 performance,
“<i>Love is a gypsy's child, It has never, never known the law</i>.” </p>
            </blockquote>





	Habanera

**Author's Note:**

> sidenote i: this fic is based on [Catch Me](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7401432/1/Catch-Me), a fanfiction by [bowlerhatfringe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlerhatfringe). Permission to rewrite and/or modify the content has been given by the original author (thank you so much! <3). You guys should check her fics, they're gorgeous!
> 
> sidenote ii: baritone singer often plays antagonist in opera. Yep, Jason has his own collection of suave villain characters. 
> 
> in case the need of [glossary](http://imgur.com/xF3mnRX)

 

_The bird you hoped to catch,_

_beat its wings and flew away._

_Love is **far** , (but) you can wait for it_

_._

_._

_._

**i.**

Everyone said Bianca was the one blessed with their mother’s gift.

At the age of sixteen, when most singers still struggling with their diction classes, Bianca had risen on stage as the new _prima donna_ , bringing Floria Tosca alive with her breathstealing soprano. When she stood under the spotlight, everything seemed to stop their reason of being to lose in her arias—wanted to dance with it, cried with it, _died_ with it—enchanted and trapped forever in her cage of charm.

Inferiority was a word Nico befriended with at the age of three.

However, despite the popular belief (“ _he’s creepy_.” “ _Never talked to anyone, that pompous brat_.” “If _he’s really Bianca’s brother, why doesn’t he sing?_ ” “ _I bet his voice is horrible. Why else he would choose to be a stagehand?_ ” “ _Maria’s talent isn’t bestowed upon him_.”) Nico knew he could sing.

Not as flawless as Bianca, and he still needed a lot of work on his endurance.

But it certainly wasn’t bad.

 

 **ii.**     

Bianca was the sun, the gravitation, the loved one—she was everything and more. Nico was a distant, unnamed star—not as bright, not as big, swallowed by the crowds of other stars in the night sky that even when people stared at him in the eye, he’d still went unnoticed.

Sometimes it was a good thing though, being unnoticed. That way he could sneak off the backstage during the scenes and climb to the cramped fly loft. Hiding his small body between the ropes and unused battens, watching the actors and actresses living the lives that weren’t theirs from his personal VIP room. Their singing sounded sharper up there—clearer, as though he was down on stage acting with them instead of just watching their wig-covered heads, dreaming of his time to shine. Someday.

There was one person that held Nico’s eyes hostage. He was fair skinned, bright eyed ( _blue like cornflower, intense and challenging and brimming with passion_ ), his short hair the color of aged Riesling. He patted everyone’s back after each show, laughing along with the lowly stagehands as though he, too, belonged to the same class.

He was the new baritone of their company. A young rising star, awfully popular already. He was like the male equivalent of Bianca and Nico hated his gut for it ( _because it should have been him_ )—but _then_ Jason smiled.

And when it was directed at Nico, it felt so overwhelming—like batch after batch of standing applause.

The first time was when he delivered Jason’s performance attire to his room. Nico had been a messy thing, back then, having to work his ass off preparing for the night’s Don Giovanni premiere. He had smudge somewhere on his sweat-covered face, strands of rogue hair escaping his hair tie and he smelled like garbage and basically looked like shit compared to Jason’s cruel Adonis charm.

But Jason _beamed_ at him so brightly Nico had to fight the urge to shield his eyes. In that instant he morphed into a blushing and stuttering mess, hurrying away and not letting Jason had a chance to thank him or look at his mortifying reaction to the smile.

Nico was hooked.           

So he was thankful of being unnoticed, for then he could sneak to the fly loft and watched Jason from the cocoon of darkness. Everytime Jason’s villain aria graced his ears, Nico was torn between wanting the opera to end so he could go home and practice, or for it to last forever so Jason’s characters would never die,

_or to be down there with him, becoming the receiving end of Jason’s overwhelming smile._

Jason’s back-patting routine left a pleasant feeling, more satisfying than the praise his captain offered for a job well done. The sensation still lingered on his skin even when he was curled in his bed, singing softly into the night.

Jason’s smiles accompanied Nico to sleep.

 

**iii.**

Jason caught him singing.

Nico was alone in the theater, too early in the morning. He was sweeping up the stage while waiting for his colleagues to arrive and suddenly inspiration hit him. They were performing Macbeth, this month, and at home, Nico had been playing Lord Macbeth to facilitate Bianca’s Lady Macbeth rehearsal. He felt giddy, reading the Lord’s lines, knowing that Jason would be saying the same exact words every night. And right then, standing on the very stage Jason had always been, Nico could not resist the urge.

He sang softly, at first—so soft that the sound of his broom brushing the wooden floor almost swallowed his voice. But then his singing rose, the corners of his perpetual downturn lips lifted and his eyes sharpened bravely.

Unlike Jason’s strong baritone, Nico’s voice reached high, a tenor kind. It didn’t fit to the role of the tyrant king at all. But he could hardly care, now, because he never got the chance to sing out loud like this, in the middle of the stage like he owned the place, and it was so thrilling, enjoyable, _exciting_ —

“So _beautiful_.”             

Nico had almost jumped out of his skin, spinning on his heels with broomstick gripped tightly in his hands. Flushed, bewildered, _wide eyed_ ; because there stood Jason, jaw slack, pink cheeks, hands holding his _libretto_ , few pages already opened and rolled to the back. He looked so enthralled, so— _captivated_ that Nico didn’t know how to react.

Sans Bianca and his mother, _this was the first time someone had ever complimented him_.

Jason came forward hesitantly. “You’re really talented… I mean, I’ve heard your sister, but… wow. _You’re incredible_.”

And then, of course Jason granted him that dizzying smile, and Nico felt his face and neck bursting aflame. “I like you!”

 

**iv.**

Nico avoided Jason like plague.

He switched tasks, preferring to run errands outside the theater, skipping group lunch, went home early (or staying in the fly loft long enough until Jason finished with his back-pat routine). He managed this until the end of the month when Macbeth finally came to its last performance. That was when he met Jason again.

But not in the way he could ever have dreamed of.

It was Octavian, the fellow stagehand who spited the fact that they only got to celebrate yet another success in the dingy backstage, while all the actresses and actors went to this fancy restaurant downtown (all paid by their patrons). Half drunk with the cheap beers the flymen had brought, Octavian spotted Nico standing quietly in the corner, and haughtily dragged him in front of others, shouting drunkenly.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome, our diva’s less talented, less favored little brother! One who will NEVER follow her success even if he eats dirt!” He laughed hysterically. Some of the equally drunk crew followed suit, the other still sober enough only smiled and fidgeted awkwardly. Nico frowned, more of annoyance than actually offended, slapping Octavian’s hand away.

“Oh, what’s the matter, Diva’s brother?” Octavian slurred, “it’s only true, isn’t it? You can’t sing even if the whole world’s fate depended on it.”

Usually Nico would just shrug it off and went home. But everyone was whispering, and of course, even though it was _him_ standing in front of them, they were talking about Bianca. Talking about her god-sent voice, about _Bianca’s brother must be a horrible singer_ ; the same old song of _Maria’s talent isn’t bestowed upon him_ and how _Bianca is always better than him_.

It was perhaps because he had downed a glass of beer himself. Perhaps his mind had gone a bit hazy. Or perhaps, ever so sudden, he just got so tired of this shit that something in him _snapped_.

He started belting out Nessun _mother-freaking_ Dorma. He didn’t do the dramatic face expressions, no—like _hell_ he will—he just stood there next to Octavian with both hands clenched in fists, head held high for the sake of better air circulation  and eyes glaring at nothing over the heads of his colleagues.  

Even Octavian’s booze-clogged brain had the decency to get shocked. Everyone in the cramped backstage hallway seemed to freeze, something Nico vaguely remembered also happened in audition room when Bianca sang her piece that brought her to the throne, a long time ago. It brought smug, sickening satisfaction to him, and he emphasized his tone even more.

And just before he reached the climatic end ( _"Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! Tramontate, stele—_ ) a hand slapped over his mouth and Nico was silenced.

He glanced up, feeling blood rushed to his head and evaporated, leaving him faint.

It was Jason.

Jason, who wore crisp black suit that stood painfully to the stagehands and flymen’s modest overalls. Jason, who looked all possessive and dangerous like Erik the Opera Ghost, whose eyes glimmered in something strange that Nico wouldn’t fight.

"I'm sorry for stopping your wonderful singing— _such lovely singing_ —but," Jason paused, taking in the whispers and stares. He pushed a hand through his perfectly waxed hair, grabbed Nico’s arm, and began to pull him out of the hall.

"Only _I'm_ allowed to hear him sing."

 

**v.**

Jason dragged him to the backdoor, pressed him against the cold brick of the theater building and kissed Nico until he was drowned in stars. When Jason pulled back, he was blushing and panting and _oh god, he's smiling._

"I've liked you for a long time, _much too long_. When I heard you sing, it only made me like you more."

Nico quivered, beginning to splutter Italian words interspersed with happy, barely concealed comments of _happiness_. Jason was grinning, grabbing Nico by the waist and hugging him. "I like you, Nico."

Nico nodded into Jason's chest. "...Yeah. _I like you, too_."

Jason _grinned_.

Inferiority was a word Nico befriended with at the age of three. Everyone said he wouldn’t be able to surpass Bianca even if he sang his throat raw. But it didn’t matter, because they didn’t know behind his lowly stagehand job Nico had been catching up with his singing lessons, and someday, _someday he will stand equal to his sister_.

And besides, it wasn’t like Bianca got _everything_.

Nico _really_ liked Jason's smiles, almost as much as he liked _Commedia dell'arte_ and _Grand Guignol_. The best part was that there were special smiles, reserved only for _him._

.

.

.

 

_You no longer await it, **there it is**_  
 _All around you, swift, swift,_  
 _It comes, goes, then it returns_

( **H** a b  _a_ n e  **r** a—Georges Bizet in **C** a r  _m_ e  **n** , 1875)


End file.
